


To Everything There is a Season

by PFL (msmoat)



Series: Table Conversation [3]
Category: The Professionals
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-28
Updated: 2018-07-28
Packaged: 2019-06-17 17:04:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15466035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/msmoat/pseuds/PFL
Summary: Many years ago I wrote a story calledTable Conversation. It was the result of a discussion with other fans about the possibility that agents might not be allowed to leave at CI5 alive. I did not--and do not--believe in that premise. But...a story emerged, nevertheless. (Arrgh.)  This is, in a way, a fix for that story. Necessary for me, if not anyone else. *g*





	To Everything There is a Season

George Cowley sat in his darkened living room, sipped the last of his Scotch and gazed out over London at night. His mind, for once, was at rest. He was living only in the moment. He breathed in and out, tasted the glory of the whisky, and felt at peace. Everything was in place, all loose ends had been neatly tied. It would be, perhaps, his greatest achievement in a life dedicated to service and honour.

When the clocked chimed midnight, Cowley set his empty glass down. He checked the flat as he would have done any other night, prepared for bed, and took comfort in the familiar routine. In the bedroom, the draught he had prepared waited for him on the table next to the bed. He drank it down, turned off the lamp, settled into bed.

His last duty. He could look back upon his past, from near-death in Spain until the present day, and find no shrinking of duty or honour. Mistakes? Oh, aye, he had made those, as any man did, but he had done his best to either rectify or learn from them. It was a pity that others had not followed the same path. A man's true delight is to do the things he was made for. And so he had, with duty prime amongst them.

Who remained who would dedicate everything to that pursuit? Who remained he could trust? None. And so he had dismantled all that he had built, slowly, secretly, until it was too late for any to stop him or pattern their power on his. There was no one left who would even understand.

Was that a sound? He turned his head, but stayed where he was. Well. If it were a burglar, then perhaps that would be best. They might then say the Old Man had fallen at last, beaten by a banal villain, and would not realise the truth. But shortly, he would win the game on his terms. The triumph was his, even if no one would know. Already he felt a deadening in his limbs. The pain would begin soon. He would bear it.

Regrets? He had very few, perhaps only one. Annie? No, he would have chosen the same again. Wakefield? Martin? No, their choices were not his responsibility and he had dealt with the consequences. Bodie? He closed his eyes. Bodie might have followed his pattern, but he had chosen as Cowley would not: heart above duty. Even then, if Doyle had lived, perhaps…? But there was no sense in speculation.

They had all left, as he had known they would, and each had taken their piece of his heart. All his agents were gone. Many had been killed in battle or after; some still served, never to be released. And a few had been eliminated, if not properly secured, as duty required. Did he regret the terms of the organisation he had built? No. But he missed them, his comrades-in-arms. They had understood the risk and the stakes—power would be paid for. They had chosen duty.

His mind was fogging; he doubted he could move. The pain was building, but that was as it should be. It was nothing compared with all he had lost. 

He head a sound—cloth against cloth—and sensed movement. He turned his head.

“We’re here, sir.” A voice from his past spoke out of the darkness.

“To see you out,” another chimed in.

Shock pierced the fog. He could see two dark shapes—silhouettes. One had a solid build, the other was slim. His body refused to move, but he blinked rapidly. They were dead. 

“Never far apart, you see,” Bodie said.

Hallucination? No, he knew they were real. One action he’d left undone, one lingering possibility. His agents had missed the kill shot, Bodie had run, fallen into the Thames, and his body had never been found. Cowley had let it go. He should have wondered why Bodie had fought to live. 

“It ends tonight,” Doyle said. His voice was flat, somber.

Cowley managed a single word: “How?”

“We read the signs,” Bodie said. “We saw what you were doing—ending CI5. Before anyone realised—

“What it had become.” There was the old, fierce fire in Doyle. 

Cowley shook his head. Their actions were self-evident. They had been his best, so of course they had kept watch. But how had it begun? He nodded his head towards Doyle.

It was Bodie who answered: “We were retired, but we knew we weren’t safe. After all those years, we wanted safe, didn’t we, Ray?”

“Yeah. So we advanced to quadruple-think.”

Planned then, from the start. They’d faked Doyle’s death. He hadn’t thought of that. The bomb had been efficient enough, and old grudges too real. Bodie’s despair had been convincing as well. Heart over duty. He had known the weakness, but failed to understand the strength. He should be angry, but instead he felt a most unsuitable pride. They’d beaten him, these two.

There were cool fingers on his neck. “Pulse is slowing.” Bodie.

Why had they come? To claim victory? He couldn’t stifle a groan, his body was on fire. It was just, he knew. His choice. He may have been right, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t pay.

“No absolution,” Doyle said, but then he added: “Sir.”

Cowley felt something other than pain stab him.

Bodie stood straight. “We’ll witness, sir.”

“And understand, if not agree,” Doyle said quietly.

And he was grateful. They stood together by his bedside like two sentinels on vigil. Fitting, he thought, as the flame consumed him. Heart and duty. 

End  
July 2018


End file.
